


Between a Cock and a Hard Place

by p1013



Series: Sterek PWP [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Blow Jobs, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 15:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19298728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: Stiles finds his friends deep in the back of the club, tucked against the wall with a series of small standing tables. It’s his roommate, Brian, and a couple of their mutual friends from the criminal justice major program. They’re about to start their senior year, and with classes picking up in just a few days, they’re all at the club to get wasted and, if they’re lucky, laid.





	Between a Cock and a Hard Place

**Author's Note:**

  * For [everchanginginks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/everchanginginks/gifts).



The sun's been down for hours when Stiles stumbles into the club. It's blisteringly hot outside—well over ninety degrees today and the humidity so high, everything is tacky and damp to the touch. Even with the air conditioning working so hard, it's sweating, it's just as bad indoors. Only here, there's no breeze, and the humidity is from sweat and writhing bodies rather than the Atlantic and brewing storms. 

He shoves his way through to the bar. The rail is sticky when he puts his forearms against it, and he leans forward, pressing into the wood as he tries to get the bartender's attention. With the crowd and how hot it is, the man's clearly overworked, and Stiles feels a pang of sympathy along with annoyance at how long it takes for him to finally get his beer. The brown glass is so cold against his overheated skin, it hurts. He takes a deep pull before running it across his forehead, replacing the gathered sweat with beaded water. 

He finds his friends deep in the back of the club, tucked against the wall with a series of small standing tables. It's his roommate, Brian, and a couple of their mutual friends from the criminal justice major program. They're about to start their senior year, and with classes picking up in just a few days, they're all here to get wasted and, if they're lucky, laid. 

Stiles has to shout to be heard. The DJ is spinning a mix of Top 40 and EDM, and while it's good music to dance to—heavy on the bass, with four-on-the-floor most of the time—it's nearly impossible to have a conversation. Giving up on any chance of being heard, he makes his way into the crowd, weaving his way to a relatively empty space on the dance floor, closing his eyes, and giving into the beat. 

Eyes shut, he loses track of the world around him. The pulse of the music beats in time with his own, thundering through his body and rocketing around his skin. Sweat gathers, rolling down his face and catching against his mouth. He washes it away with his beer, licking the taste from the corners of his mouth. 

As the beat changes, the DJ shifting to another sexually charged Top 40's hit, Stiles feels someone press themselves up against his back, a line of fire from his shoulders to his ass. He leans back into the solid weight of the body, enjoying the sensation of hard muscles pressed against him. Stiles doesn't really care who he dances with when he goes to clubs like this, but he can tell that the body pressed against his like a second skin is definitely a guy. There's no softness to this body, nothing gentle, just strength that whispers wicked promises that it can tear him apart and put him back together again. 

He throws his hips into the music, grinding his ass back, and the man grabs him as if to stop Stiles's motion. Frowning, Stiles starts to open his eyes, starts to turn, but the man just shifts Stiles's body and grinds back against him like it's his fucking purpose in life. Stiles groans and takes a frantic drink from his beer, desperately searching for relief from the sudden, blistering burn of his blood under his skin. 

Giving up any semblance of impassivity, Stiles lets his head fall back onto the guy's shoulder, his eyes still shut. He feels breath against his neck, then teeth pressing hot and hard against his pulse. The hands on his hips slide forward, fingers sneaking into his pockets, pressing against the muscles at the top of his thighs, then lower. Stiles gasps, groans, and grinds back harder. 

Everything fades except for the pulse of the music, the way his blood is soaring through his veins and arteries, the heavy weight of arousal settled deep in his gut, the almost painful press of his dick against his zipper. He brings a hand up to tangle in the hair of the guy behind him, his other arm limp by his side, beer bottle barely hanging on. A tongue chases sweat from Stiles's skin, and feeling slow and sluggish, like he's underwater but somehow on fire, Stiles opens his eyes. 

His heart stutters, then stops in his chest. Nose buried in his neck, eyes flashing blue from under thick, dark lashes, Derek fucking Hale flashes his teeth in a wicked grin. 

"What the fuck," Stiles says on an exhale, heartbeat struggling to catch up to the rhythm of the music. 

"I came in for work," Derek says against Stiles's skin, the words more a feeling than a sound. "Thought I'd say hi. Someone at your dorm said you'd be here." 

"That's not what I meant." Stiles swallows and lifts his beer, annoyed to find it empty when his throat is so damn dry. 

"I know what you meant," Derek says before pulling Stiles hard against him. Stiles can't help the groan that escapes, pressing back. He feels Derek, hot and hard, against the denim-covered cleft of his ass, and his eyes slide shut again, head dropping back. Derek laughs against his neck, then presses an open mouthed kiss there. 

Now that Stiles knows who's pressed against his back, he can't help the flood of arousal that washes over him. Before, it had been a general thing, a sense of tension, of possibility. Now, it's focused. Stretched taut like a vibrating guitar string about to snap, Stiles wonders what would happen if Derek were to run his hands under the edge of Stiles's shirt, if he were to strum a chord against his skin. Wonders if he'd break, discordant and ruined, beneath his hands. 

Derek slips his fingers into the pocket of Stiles's jeans, his thumbs hooking over the waistband and pulling it, tantalizingly, lower. When his nails catch against the ridge of Stiles's hip bone, Stiles shudders, knees weak. He lets his hips flow beneath Derek's hands, lets himself be guided with the music and the slow, hard roll of Derek's body behind his. He can feel Derek's cock nestled against his ass, and he grinds against it, lets the beat pound through him like he wants Derek to. 

As the music slows, two songs crossfading into each other, Stiles shifts his weight, lets his feet and the thrum under his skin pull his body away from Derek's for a second—pause, a caesura, a measure of rest—before diving back into the hot, sweat-soaked world they're inhabiting. Derek's hands catch, falter, lose the beat, but then they slide across Stiles's hips as his body turns before settling on the small of his back, just brushing against the back pockets of his jeans. 

Derek's not that much taller than Stiles, but he still somehow towers over him. Looking up through his lashes, Stiles closes the distance between their bodies, pressing his front against Derek's. They're both in T-shirts and jeans, nothing special. The heat and the humidity and the sweat that they've been creating, though, makes fabric stick to skin, and Stiles can see every plane of Derek's chest and abdomen. He slips his empty hand under the hem of Derek's shirt, eyebrow raising in a challenge. There's a flash of white teeth, Derek's expression somewhere between a provocation and a threat, and then his hands slip under the waistband of Stiles's jeans to cup his ass, skin on skin. 

Siltes wants to laugh, but there's no breath in his lungs. Instead, he presses himself closer. He can feel Derek's sweat through the layers of fabric separating them, and he lets his mouth ghost over Derek's pulse. God, he smells _good_. Like sweat and spice and rough sex. Lips just parted, Stiles lets them coast over Derek's neck and grins when the other man shivers, his hands tightening on Stiles's ass and pulling their hips tight against each other. 

Derek's cock is a hot, heavy weight against Stiles's hip, and he shifts so that they're pressed against each other, pulses beating through the thick denim of their pants and the sharp sting of zippers. Stiles tangles his free hand in Derek's hair, pulling his head back enough that Stiles can drag his teeth over Derek's pulse. He feels Derek's groan beneath his tongue, feels Derek's cock jump against his, and Stiles grinds down, dirty and unforgiving. 

Derek snaps his head down, rubbing the rough sandpaper of stubble against Stiles's cheek. A breath brushes against his ear before teeth catch the lobe, and Stiles thinks he might come from the feeling of Derek's teeth catching against his skin. 

"You want me to fuck you," Derek whispers into the shell of Stiles's ear. The quiet words pound through him like bass from a subwoofer, a chest-shaking vibration that's more force than sound. 

"Maybe I want to fuck you," Stiles answers, and Derek stills. His breath catches against Stiles's skin, and Stiles grins, vicious and on edge. "I bet you'd look real pretty spread open on my cock." 

Derek jerks back, finally meeting Stiles's eyes fully. He's got sweat caught at his temples, his hair glistening and soft where the heat has melted whatever product he'd used before. His cheeks are flushed, mouth open and lips red. Pupils blown so wide, his eyes look black instead of their usual, gorgeous mix of color. Strobe lights and lasers flash around them, casting Derek in glancing color, and Stiles can't breathe, can't think. 

Their mouths crash together like harmony, tongues and lips and teeth playing against each other in counterpoint. The beer bottle falls from Stiles's hand, falling forgotten to the floor as he buries both of his hands into Derek's hair, trying to pull him closer when there's already no space between them. They grind their hips together, hands scrabbling for purchase against sweat-slick skin. They settle into a rhythm, hips moving against each other, smooth and slow. 

Stiles is shocked when the orgasm rips through him. His stomach drops out from underneath him, and he moans, Derek's mouth catching the sound. The only reason he's still standing is because of Derek's arms wrapped around his waist and his hands tangled in Derek's hair. Derek laughs against his mouth. The sound is dark and wanting, and Stiles groans again before sealing their mouths together. He lets the orgasm wind its way through his body, soothing his racing pulse while he pulls his hands free from Derek's hair. He trails them over Derek's check, cupping his jaw, following the flow of blood from his neck to his chest to his cock. He squeezes over the denim-clad bulge, and now he's the one laughing when Derek's knees buckle. 

"Let's go," Stiles says, hand catching Derek's and pulling him deeper into the club. They have to push and shove their way through the crowd, their bodies pressed against each other as they fight to find space to move. Derek keeps sneaking his hand under Stiles's clothes, brushes of skin that rekindle the embers of desire in Stiles's veins. As they reach the edges of the room, the crowd falls away. 

The air is cooler now that they're out from the center of the crowd. Stiles's skin breaks out in goosebumps, but he's not sure if that's because of the air conditioning or Derek's hand pressed flat against the bare skin of his back, shoved up underneath Stiles's shirt. He uses that hand to spin Stiles around, backs him up against the wall. He buries his nose in the crook of Stiles's neck and starts sucking on the skin there, washing away Stiles's sweat with wide passes of his tongue and mouth. 

"Fuck," Stiles says, hands wrapping around Derek's neck to pull his mouth closer. "I need to... Derek, I —" 

He pulls Derek's off of his neck, brings their mouths together in a crash of lips and teeth. He's mindless, driven by desire and instinct. With a burst of sudden strength, he pushes, spins Derek around so he's slammed against the wall. Stiles feels Derek's teeth clack together with the force of it, his head bouncing against the wall. Derek winces, but he also groans, low and wicked, and Stiles can't fucking _breathe_ for how much he wants. 

"Gonna get my mouth on you," he murmurs into Derek's pulse. His lips catch against skin, then fabric, as he falls to his knees, nose pressed into the hollow of Derek's navel. He bites at it through Derek's T-shirt, gasps a hot, wanting breath when Derek buries his fingers in Stiles's hair and pulls hard enough to sting. 

Blinking sudden tears from his eyes, Stiles looks up at Derek. He's watching, eyes flashing, as Stiles cranes his neck up and licks his lips. 

"Do it," Derek growls, his hands gentling as he trails his fingers over the arch of Stiles's cheekbone. 

He's not sure why his hands are shaking, but they are. Stiles fumbles with the button of Derek's jeans. It slides through the fabric easily, and when Stiles pulls the zipper down, the fabric gapes open, showing the base of Derek's cock in the flashing lights of the club. 

Of fucking _course_ , he's going commando. Saliva floods Stiles's mouth, and he buries his nose in Derek's pubes, breathing in the musky scent as he pulls Derek's cock free. He runs his fingers over it gently, enjoy the shift and pull of Derek's foreskin. He lifts it, then runs his tongue from the base to the tip before swallowing Derek down. 

Fingers pull at his hair, and the sting of it sends lances of pleasure racing through his body. He groans around Derek's cock, chokes it down until he can feel the head pressing against the back of his throat, and then he goes to work. It's all lips and tongues and occasional teeth—a slow, careful drag against Derek's skin that has him hissing at the hint of pain—as he sucks cock like he was made for it. And, oh god, does he feel made for this. Derek's precome is salty and bitter against his tongue, but it's fucking _perfect_. Stiles uses every trick he knows, every twist of hand and lips that he's learned from experience, every flash of eyes and muffled moans he's seen in porn. He lets spit leak from the corners of his mouth, lets it drip down his face and over Derek's balls, can feel it running along the length of his forearm as he works Derek's length with everything he has. 

When he uses his free hand to tease at Derek's asshole—a gentle, dry brush against puckered flesh—Derek shouts above him, his hands tightening hard against Stiles's head. His hips press up, stutter, and then Stiles's mouth is filled with warm, salty come. He swallows it down, greedy for the sounds that Derek makes, the ones that are drowned out by the steady beat of music behind them. He wouldn't take this moment back for anything in the world, but he would kill someone to hear Derek come with his cock in Stiles's mouth. 

Derek pulls him off, and Stiles gasps, feeling empty now that Derek's slowly softening dick isn't in his mouth anymore. Derek pulls Stiles to his feet, then pulls their mouths together, chasing the taste of his come from Stiles's lips and tongue. The kiss gentles quickly. However frantic they'd been before, it's easier now. It's steady, easy, four-on-the-floor as they both come down from the moment. 

Stiles carefully zips Derek back into his pants, then drags his mouth free before ducking his head into the space between Derek's neck and shoulder. He breathes there, fingers resting on the fastenings of Derek's pants as Derek runs gentle hands up and down his back. Stiles's shirt is plastered to his skin with sweat, and now that he's not drunk or dancing or coming, it's uncomfortable. 

"You want to get out of here?" Stiles asks Derek's neck, eyes once more closed. 

"Yes," he says, and Stiles feels his heart give a kick at the desperate edge to the words. "You haven't fucked me yet." 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Becka!


End file.
